Haymitch
by gluehwuermchen
Summary: "Off we go to the Capitol. Once again I'm leaving District 12 with two kids and coming back with none." This is a story from Haymitch's POV as he mentors the two tributes that might finally break the mold and change Panem.


**Haymitch**

Off we go to the Capitol. Once again I'm leaving District 12 with two kids and coming back with none. Ever since I've won the Games, I've had the _great_ honor of mentoring my district's tributes. The first four or five times I still made an effort, but I quickly realized it was a waste of time. They were either too weak or too stupid. But it wasn't like they had a chance to ever be anything else.

I realize I am vaguely interested in this year's harvest. That Katniss girl seems more stupid than the average tribute, volunteering to take her sister's place. In the arena, selflessness is suicide. If you mean well, even try to help others, you'll pay for it. Being from the Seam, though, the girl must know a thing or two about survival, so she may not be entirely hopeless.

Unlike the baker's son: he looks as if he is as soft as bread and as pampered as someone from District 12 could ever be. He hasn't known hunger like the girl has. Plus, he doesn't seem to have any special skills.

I wonder for a moment who of the two would die first. If I had to bet, I'd put my money on the girl to survive longer. It's nothing but a feeling that I don't care enough to think about.

I spend the first night on the train in my compartment, as it has become my personal tradition, watching TV and preparing for the coming weeks with the help of a drink or two. The recap of the reaping across Panem brings no surprises. Well-trained Careers, one or two tributes from the poorer districts who may stand a chance if they're lucky, which they probably won't be. And then there's the usual cannon fodder, a boy with a crippled foot, a twelve-year-old girl who won't survive the first night. And then there's District 12. I might have been too distracted to pay much attention during the reaping, so I'm interested in that part. The crowd refuses to applaud, which shows that they are more decent than any of the Capitol clowns could ever be, and the silent salute looks impressive. Of course, the moderators spew nonsense about our quaint traditions and nicely demonstrate their absolute cluelessness. A hand gesture might be the biggest act of defiance District 12 may ever have the chance to commit. I refuse to follow this line of thought any further. Instead, I pour myself another drink as I watch myself fall off the stage. The Capitol people can say a lot about me, but I do try my best to exude the dignity expected of a victor.

I wake up in my bed the next morning, which usually doesn't happen after a night of drinking. I'm surprisingly clean, too, but I make no effort to remember last night. No memories are good memories. If only I could get rid of the ones I already have. Time to get a drink.

As I enter the dining car, Effie and the baker's son are already eating. They look annoyingly perky and seem to be talking. The boy is obviously making an effort to be nice to that detestable woman, but it looks surprisingly genuine. He's a good actor. _Interesting._

Effie notices me and throws me a reproachful look, which I ignore. Then she clears her throat in that affected Capitol manner. I'm not willing to give her the chance to say something that will not improve my mood, so I speak first.

"You look like you had a bad night. I feel like a drink – want one?"

"_Really_, Haymitch, you shouldn't –"

I'll be damned if I let that woman tell me what I should or shouldn't do. Sometimes her utter cluelessness amuses me, but not today. A few well-chosen words later, Effie grabs her cup of Capitol coffee and leaves the dining car in a huff. My mood brightens considerably. She might not know a thing about the real world, but it was fun to get her riled up.

As Effie leaves, the Katniss girl enters.

"Sit down! Sit down!" I say and wave her over. I watch her as she observes the food on the table. Some of the more naïve tributes thought the Capitol was being nice by giving them food. They didn't understand that it's nothing but a perverse demonstration of power, showing the tributes a glimpse of the life they are denied. The Capitol does like to feed their bait well before they put it on the hook.

Katniss is looking at her cup dubiously. "They call it hot chocolate," the baker's son says. "It's good."

I busy myself with my own drink and take out my special bottle to add some flavor to that bland Capitol juice. I feel my brain slow with each comforting sip. Somewhere on the edge of my conscience, I register that the girl chooses her food well. Good girl, gain some weight. Might help you survive a couple of days longer. I'm getting pleasantly numb now. Until, at least, that girl disturbs my peace.

"So, you're supposed to give us advice," she says and makes it sound like a reproach. She's looking at me like I'm a horrible mentor. I can't say I disagree.

"Here's some advice. Stay alive," I say, and laugh. That's just as important as it is impossible.

The kids look at each other and I'm slightly surprised to see the hardness in the boy's eyes.

"That's very funny," he says. All of a sudden he lashes out at my glass, which shatters on the floor. "Only not to us."

I need a second to react. I punch him in the jaw, knocking him from his chair. I still got it.

I turn back to reach for the bottle, when suddenly, there's a knife stuck in the table between it and my hand, barely missing my fingers. It takes me a second to realize that Katniss did it. I sit back, surprised by what had happened. In 23 years, I've never encountered tributes who dared to attack me. Most of them had given up the moment their name was drawn. Maybe it was a promising harvest after all.

"Well, what's this? Did I actually get a pair of fighters this year?" I say.

I see the boy scooping up ice to cool his bruise, which he shouldn't do.

"No," I say and make him stop. "Let the bruise show. The audience will think you've mixed up with another tribute before you've even made it to the arena."

"That's against the rules," says the boy. Oh dear, he has a lot to learn. I need to get this attitude out of him and the girl, the faster the better.

"Only if they catch you. That bruise will say you fought, you weren't caught, even better."  
I turn to the girl. "Can you hit anything with that knife besides the table?"

Katniss throws the knife at the wall across the room, and it lodges in the seam between two panels. Now that's something I haven't seen.

"Stand over here. Both of you," I say. It's the first time I've looked at them as tributes instead of corpses. I look at their faces, posture and build.

"Well, you're not entirely hopeless. Seem fit. And once the stylists get a hold of you, you'll be attractive enough."

It looks like I've got something to work with here. It's been a while since that has been the case.

"All right. I'll make a deal with you. You don't interfere with my drinking, and I'll stay sober enough to help you. But you have to do exactly what I say."

"Fine." Peeta says. Katniss, however, immediately launches at me. "So help us. When we get into the arena, what's the best strategy at the Cornucopia for someone –"

"One thing at a time," I interrupt her. I just can`t stand all that chattering, and there's no point to it now. We need to prioritize. "In a few minutes, we'll be pulling into the station. You'll be put into the hands of your stylists. You're not going to like what they do to you. But no matter what it is, don't resist," I order.

"But –" she starts again.

"No buts. Don't resist," I say. I take my bottle and leave the car, dangerously close to feeling hope.


End file.
